


Reflections of a Vampire

by Spot_On60



Series: Black Ice [1]
Category: Dark Shadows (1966)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spot_On60/pseuds/Spot_On60
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnabas contemplates his housemate on a night he finds himself alone in the Old House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections of a Vampire

**Author's Note:**

> A succession to previous works by Sylvia Bond, N.J. Nidiffer and lovesrain44. I suggest the following works be read in this order prior to delving into Black Ice  
> My Boy Willie by Sylvia Bond http://archiveofourown.org/works/572557  
> Auction Verse Parts 1 - 4 by lovesrain44 http://archiveofourown.org/series/11772  
> Ordinary Day by lovesrain44 http://archiveofourown.org/works/268176  
> Gina Lee Parts 1 - 22 by Sylvia Bond and N.J Nidiffer http://archiveofourown.org/series/30206  
> Fleet of Stars Verse Parts 1 & 2 by lovesrain44 http://archiveofourown.org/series/11770  
> Splinter Verse Parts 1 - 5 by lovesrain44 http://archiveofourown.org/series/11773

**Reflections of a Vampire**

Crossing the threshold into Willie’s room Barnabas went to the ever present courting candle. The lantern, a gift given so many years ago, had become a fixture; seeming now to have been part of the night table’s original design. Over the years it had seen Willie through many dark nights and even darker moments. Searching along the shelf he found a box of new tapers. Removing the old stub, rolling it in his hand, feeling the smooth wax glide between his thumb and fingers, he asked himself how many times he must have done this prior. How many times had he raised the shield between Willie and the night? With a blink he roused himself back to his task.

He struck a match and lit the lantern. A glow radiating from within beveled amber glass quietly lifted the darkness from all but the deepest of corners. Barnabas’ thoughts rested for a moment on how even after twenty-three years Willie still had been unable to drift to sleep without this low light keeping watch. Willie wouldn’t be returning home from his trip to Boston this night, yet Barnabas felt compelled to keep the sentinel in his room lit.

While roaming the halls and chambers of the Old House throughout most nights, Barnabas would, without thought, check for the faint stream of light simmering under Willie’s bedroom door. He had made a habit of entering the room in search of low or guttered-out stubs, replacing with a fresh taper if needed. During colder months he would stoke the fire to help remove the early morning chill. These things he did every pre-dawn before retiring himself. Often he would find he was performing his duty without any memory of crossing the threshold. Usually the bed’s occupant slept on and was unaware of the activities. Occasionally he would glance down to see the man awake, looking up at him, silent. Then there were times when a whispered question would be asked with eyes closed from a half sleep, “Barnabas?”

He would reach down to pet the man’s head, running his fingers through sandy blond hair and answer low, “Yes, it’s me.” He often wondered if the question was relief from or maybe confirmation of a dream. He liked to believe his answer was as much a comfort as the candle itself. Barnabas too took comfort in the candle. Not in its role as a night watchman, but as an unassuming and constant means of conveying his true fondness and affection for his companion.

This night he left the spent match on the marble top of the nightstand and regarded the bed, a tidy package of acquired items framed in old brass. Willie had been replacing and adding items to the room over the years. He purchased the new box spring and mattress some fifteen years prior and recently had made rumblings about replacing again. He had mined sheets from other rooms until he had worn out every piece of usable bed linen available from all three floors. He now had satin-soft cotton sheets he had purchased via mail order. As a Christmas gift the year the new foundations had arrived, Barnabas had given him an assortment of new blankets: a cotton summer weight, for colder nights a woolen blanket he’d ordered directly from the mill in Uxbridge, Mass., and a goose down comforter that he now saw folded neatly across the foot of the bed, available to ward off the coldest of chills. Each of them had corner monograms reading, “WLH”. There were rugs on the floor and few pictures on the walls. A treasured photograph of himself with favored children could always be found on the nightstand. Aside from the plaid of the wool blanket, there were no patterns or affectations; simple, serviceable and sturdy.

Barnabas noted Willie always made his bed. From the very first morning he occupied the room it was his way. He wondered where that had come from. Then again there were so many things he still didn’t know about the other man. Willie had once even chided him for showing no interest; although, Barnabas wouldn’t accept all blame in the matter. It was true, he seldom thought to ask questions. However, Willie wasn’t brimming with volunteered information either. Barnabas most often gleaned bits of Willie’s previous life from casual references made in conversation. Though once there had been a particularly explosive revelation of violence Willie had suffered in the Middle East; Turkey, of all places. Barnabas would never have thought of Willie as having been to such an exotic location.

But be there he had with the late Jason McGuire, apparently the two on shore leave. They had run afoul of the local authorities and Willie was the one who paid the heaviest price for the encounter. Learning the story and of Mr. McGuire’s efforts to extricate him and ministering to him afterwards had helped enlighten Barnabas to the ties between the two men, or rather, man and boy.

Willie had been quite young when they met and set off together. He had left his father’s house and care when embraced, taken in as it were by McGuire. It seemed to Barnabas the care given to him by McGuire far exceeded what he received from his own father. Together they had sailed the world’s seas, something Barnabas was somewhat envious of; although, would never mention or admit to the younger man. Interestingly, Willie’s lack of boasting or waving about of his adventures was part of what defined him. For even given his early rough and tumble life, Willie was humble and self-effacing at his core. Yes there were some breaches in conduct early on as the wild child was being shown to the curb, but shelter of the Old House allowed Willie to shed the mask of bravado that served him well, but had always made him uncomfortable in his own skin, and, by the time he reached Collinsport, perpetually angry. Some said the wind was taken out of his sails or the stuffing knocked out of him. The truth of the matter was after not much time and never admitting it aloud, Willie found relief in being through with the persona that never really fit him.

His passport attested to his disembarking in places as far reaching as Polynesia, Sweden, Japan, Brazil, China, San Francisco and so many more. It only accurately noted when he had left the ship. There were many other areas where he had remained on board such as just below the Arctic. In Barnabas’ time the region was unknown, uncharted, not considered a destination by even the bravest of adventurers. Barnabas learned it was while trapped in ice in the upper Pacific, the Bering Strait, aboard a freighter, Willie’s loyalty to his friend Jason was sealed. The Irishman apparently had an unprecedented affection for the lad in return, his “boy-o.” They had been friends. Good friends. After years of travelling the world together, who would have imagined it would be a place as innocuous as Collinsport, Maine that tore the two apart.

Looking down at the bed Barnabas could picture Willie lying there. On a cool fall night covered by a blanket. During winter burrowed deep within the comforter with little visual evidence of him. In spring with a sheet lightly draped. And in the heat of summer on top of sheets sodden with his sweat.

As he gazed, Willie’s scent rose from the bed. He occupied the room even in his absence. Barnabas realized he was reaching out, touching the pillow.


End file.
